


The First Time He Kills You

by orphan_account



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Dark, Kidnapping, M/M, POV Second Person, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:37:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3924883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he kills you, you're nothing but a fly trapped in his web. You are all sorts of animals. You are a fly, a street rat, and a dog who wets himself when strong hands grab you and refuse to let you go.</p><p>You try to kick him, but he dodges and your knee hits the strong muscle of his thigh. His grip tightens, but he knows better than to kick back, and you know – he is an animal too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Time He Kills You

**Author's Note:**

> Mind you, I wrote most of this IN CLASS. I don't feel very confident about it -- first time writing this pairing and all -- but I had fun writing it so I figured, why the hell shouldn't I share it.

The first time he kills you, you're nothing but a fly trapped in his web. You are all sorts of animals. You are a fly, a street rat, and a dog who wets himself when strong hands grab you and refuse to let you go.

You try to kick him, but he dodges and your knee hits the strong muscle of his thigh. His grip tightens, but he knows better than to kick back, and you know – he is an animal too.

–

The moment you get to see his face marks your second death.

His hair is as dark as your father's used to be, soft curls in a crown, and he's not as young as you thought he'd be. There's a certain noble pattern to the wrinkles collected on his face. You find yourself thinking that his skin must be a silk-soft mask, must be like sand slipping through your fingers.

You find that it is soft and softer when he presses his cheek against yours. His accent knifes you, the blade runs down your spine and your teeth shatter as it jumps over your vertebrae. 

“Tell me your name,” he asks you in the most polite, gentle way. You could almost forget that this is not someone you picked up at a random bar, you'd almost ignore the ropes tying your hands. In self-protection, you are pressing them against your chest, and you think, _I've never prayed but it looks like I am now, hail fucking Mary, Jesus Christ._ Even in your head, your own accent sounds like an insult compared to his.

The crawl of his voice makes you answer, you tell yourself, and his eyes on your face. “Eggsy?” you tell him and your voice is a ribbon tied with a question mark.

You can't believe he doesn't know, you can't believe it was random. You realize you've been imagining this all wrong. You were so wrong in thinking that you were his grand prize. No, no, you're still just a street rat, your fur is about as grey as everyone else's.

And your real name, he asks. And your favorite color, and your favorite ice cream flavor, and have you ever worn lipstick before?

You answer him every time, except for that last question, you keep that muttered _yes_ to yourself and worry your lips instead. You are a tamed animal now. In the dark of the room, he unties your hands and caresses your wrists to ease the phantom of pain, and you think, _never have I ever encountered someone who treated me better_. 

–

Your third death is the food he feeds you. Your hands are not tied anymore, but he doesn't offer a fork and grins about it. You lick meat and rice off his devilish fingers and his skin tastes better than the food. That is your fourth death.

–

He kills you for the fifth time when he kisses you goodnight one evening.

You're lying on the softest bed you've ever known, it's like calm sea surrounding you, and he tells you that you're his beautiful boy. You can't recognize yourself, not that you have a mirror. Your lungs expand with the deep breath you take, and you don't want to ask him to let you go anymore, you don't want to beg in that shaky voice of yours, and although it makes you shiver, you tell yourself it's just because you don't want to make him angry.

He's having a moment, isn't he, and you don't want to talk over it, you'd rather stare back into his eyes quietly because he silenced you a long time ago, you'd rather admire the wonderful calmness of his face.

He is so nice, you think. He took you and cleaned you of the filth of the streets, he stopped all the hands that were reaching out to beat you. True, you don't get to see the sun anymore, you don't get to taste fresh air anymore, you are not a free man, but tameness suits you, you think. England is too rainy anyway, and air is always stained with pollution.

“It's been thirty-seven days,” he tells you and his hand trembles softly, resting against your neck. His palm cradles your Adam's apple, but there is no pressure there, his hand is a valley, the only non-urbanized safe place to rest. You have simply grown to ignore the carnivorous plants waiting to eat you.

“Will you ever let me go?” you ask, terrified to hear mockery in your voice. “What's your name?”

“Harry,” he confesses and you can see your surprised expression reflecting on his glasses, magnified. You have a name, and he's not letting you go. Ever.

 _The first Harry I met_ , you think, _It suits him._

You stick your hands underneath the silky sheets when you realize you want to take those glasses off and wander your fingers across his face, discover the wrinkles, absorb the softness. He smiles and you wish you could dig your thumbs into his cheeks.

–

The two months anniversary is a silent sixth death because you don't miss your family anymore. You don't want to save your mother, you don't want to play with your little sister. You have this little safe place, you have shelter, you have heaven in your kidnapper's embrace.

The thing is, Harry treats you so well. He gives you food before your stomach starts to turn hungry cartwheels. He compliments you in that voice of his, and he gave you the entire third floor of his pretty house. Your sheets are cream rolling against your body in tidal waves. Everything is so soft, everything is so less, but he makes _you_ feel like more.

“What did you think?” he asks you after you watch West Side Story together, and you look at him and you grin. You burn from the inside and don't know what to say, because no one has ever cared.

“Think it was too long,” you say and the only thing you suddenly miss is your stupid snapback, your fingers get tangled in your hair when you reach up to play with it nervously. It was the wrong thing to say, wasn't it? _Hail fucking Mary, Jesus Christ._

But he smiles at you and his fingers touch your chin. You wish you could somehow look down and see the exact spot where his skin meets yours. Your face is a fire burning hot and he's the match.

“Perhaps it will teach you to be patient?” he suggests.

“Dunno.” 

You want his mouth to curl around filth. You want to hear him call your an arse, or a prick, or a wanker. You know he would never utter such words and you're too afraid to do it for him.

–

Your heels feel at home digging into the meat of his thighs, linked over his lower back.

“Eggsy,” he moans.

And you love him, you love him, you love him.

You're dead seven times, and you're afraid you're a cat and only have two lives to go.

–

Your eighth death is weeks in the making, slowly put together by each morning when he leaves. Your hands are flailing in the morning dusk and his silhouette lingers by the door.

“Will you come back?” you ask him instead of begging him to let you go with him.

“Of course I will, darling,” he reassures you and you fall back on your pillow and you think, _how many toys has he played with before I came along? How many street rats came before me and curled up in this filthy, fucked up nest?_

Each time he leaves, you are wondering and doubts eat away at you, is this really how you want it to be? Even though you're blind to the bars guarding the windows in case you wanted to escape and jump to your death, each time he leaves, your stomach knots and there's a twisted feeling settling in your gut.

And then he comes back and you die all over again because he's there and there's nothing else then, you can't explain it.

He tells you stories or sits beside your in silence and you would do anything to make him laugh. 

You stand atop the stairs and you don't dare to come down. You did it the first week after he grabbed you near the Tottenham Court Road station and you still remember the heavy door at the end of the hallway. If you tried to walk down that path again, you know you would start wondering again, and that's not safe.

Harry is safe. The food he feeds you, the love he gives you.

–

“You are so beautiful,” he tells you once again, his fingers coming up to your face and brushing your hair off your forehead. It's gotten too long now, but it feels like you're both too vulnerable to handle scissors.

You smile at him, and what a wonderful boy you are, what pleasant company you make. You fall for your own fake image of a timid child and you bite on your lip and your words are faster than your thoughts.

“Take me someplace then,” you suggest bravely, “Show me off, ye?”

His face falls, you can literally see every bit of sunlight leave his features. His eyes are empty dark caves hiding behind the lenses of his glasses and his fingers are rocks falling upon your face, even though he'd never hit you. You think.

“No,” he says. So cold.

Your ninth death and all your deaths that follow until the very last one (when a fire breaks out in the safe valley and it's no longer safe) is simply you forgetting how this all came to be.


End file.
